


Witching Hour

by LadyFlorentine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Swap, Gen, Harry's Eye-Twinkle, Horcrux Hunting, Humor, ICW Conference, Post-Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2018-11-05 17:04:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11017752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFlorentine/pseuds/LadyFlorentine
Summary: One night at 3 AM, Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore wake up to find that the prophecy has taken an unforeseen turn. “Congratulations Headmaster,” said Harry, voice laden with unholy glee, “you’re the Chosen One!”





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

Albus Dumbledore woke suddenly from strange dreams about Voldemort and Death Eaters and  _fear_  to a sharp, searing pain.

 

He brought a hand to its focal point on his forehead and frowned as he traced a scar that had not been there when he had fallen asleep.

 

He quickly pulled back his hand and gasped.

 

It was covered in blood.

 

* * *

 

 

Hundreds of miles away, Harry Potter startled awake from strange dreams of Grindelwald and  _failures_ and history repeating itself.

 

He quickly stood to make his way to the bathroom to splash water onto his face, but froze in alarm as he realized he was not where he had been upon falling asleep.

 

Nothing was familiar.

 

With dread, he realized that this room was not his room…these robes were not his robes...

 

He looked at his hands.

 

Unwilling to finish the thought even in his own mind, he hurried forward toward the open door of a bathroom and looked into the mirror.

 

The face of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore stared back at him.

 

In hindsight, Harry liked to think that Godric Gryffindor himself would have screamed just as shrilly as he did then.

 

* * *

 

 

Heart pounding in his chest, Harry stumbled out of Dumbledore’s quarters into the Headmaster’s office. One shaking hand held the wand he’d found on the bedside table- a wand which was definitely  _not_ his of beloved holly and phoenix feather – the other ran a hand nervously through his hair.

 

Long, gray hair.

 

It was such a strange sensation that he stopped immediately. He took a deep breath and held out Dumbledore’s wand. “ _Lumos_.”

 

“Albus?” a few of the portraits asked, eyes squinting from the bright light which had awoken them.

 

Harry almost replied that  _no,_ he was most certainly  _not_  Albus, but he bit his tongue at the last moment. This was a rather…not good…situation. He did not even want to think of the consequences should the wrong people learn of it.

 

Voldemort would probably see it as a way to destroy Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter in one fell swoop.

 

That could  _not_ happen.

 

Harry’s mouth ran dry. He had never even  _heard_  of people switching bodies or waking up in bodies that were not their own.

 

He had to tell someone though, didn’t he?

 

His gut told him he had to tell Dumbledore –

 

He almost laughed, but the thought stayed. If he was here, what had happened to Dumbledore? What happened to the body of Harry Potter in Little Whinging?

 

He had to check.

 

But he had no way to get there. Maybe he could take thestrals, like he had to the Ministry, but it would take too long, and it would be too suspicious for Albus Dumbledore to travel by thestral or broomstick.

 

He didn’t know how to make a portkey or apparate.

 

Which left him with precious few options.

 

Harry sped down the spiral staircase with an agility and grace he had not imagined possible given Albus Dumbledore’s age, cursing as he ran across the school in his star-studded night robes. He stopped only to pound his fists against Minerva McGonagall’s office door. His knuckles were bloody in the short time she took to open it. 

 

McGonagall took one look at Harry before the irritated look on her face changed to one of worry. “Albus,” she gently took his hands in one of hers, the other casting a healing spell. “What’s happened? It’s three in the morning.”

 

He floundered helplessly before the words spilled from his mouth. “We have to check on Harry.”

 

McGonagall took this in stride, tapping her wand over herself to transfigure more appropriate clothing. She looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

 

“I can’t apparate,” Harry admitted. “There’s no time to explain. You’ll have to take me.”

 

She stepped back, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. After all, that’d be one way for a Death Eater to get at Harry Potter.  _Shit._ “And what of Fawkes?”

 

The thought hadn’t occurred to him. Oh, fuck, he was so stupid. “Fawkes?”

 

Just as Harry said so, the phoenix appeared to him in a brilliant flash of scarlet and gold. The phoenix’s knowing stare made him feel even more idiotic. “Right,” was Harry’s strangled answer. He laughed weakly. “That’s right. Fawkes. Most excellent. Um, thank you Minerva. That’ll be all then.”

 

“ _Albus_ ,” she hissed, the amount of subtext and menace in that one word making Harry fear on behalf of the real Albus Dumbledore.

 

“There’s no time,” he said in lieu of a proper answer, while privately thinking that there was just enough time and he would be using it to escape. Harry turned to Fawkes pleadingly. “To Harry Potter. Number 4, Privet Drive.”

 

The phoenix clutched Harry’s hand between its talons, and a moment later, they disappeared noiselessly, leaving a furious Minerva McGonagall in their wake.

 

* * *

 

 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Harry chanted to Fawkes after they landed in Surrey. He hurried in the direction of the Dursley’s, wand out and phoenix on his shoulder.

 

Harry didn’t dare cast a disillusionment charm – he had no idea if he would set off the trace while outside of Hogwarts wards.

 

But the good thing about being in the body of Albus Dumbledore, Harry decided as they crossed through the dark neighborhood, was that he doubted that any Death Eater doing surveillance duty would dare to outright attack him.

 

Well, unless Voldemort was lurking about.

 

Then it would be a decidedly bad thing for a magically inferior Harry Potter to bluff as being Albus Dumbledore.

 

Harry shuddered at the thought and walked faster.

 

The house was finally in sight, but as he came closer, Harry was surprised to feel vast, powerful presence in his mind. He was hyper-aware as it seemed to search his very soul, weighing his worth and intentions. It was  _protective_ , he realized.

 

Whatever magic it was, it did not find him lacking. It relaxed its hold on him, but Harry still grimaced at the sensation - he had the inescapable feeling he had just avoided extreme punishment and pain.

 

The magic seemed to linger on him like a second-skin, as if to keep an eye on him should he behave in a way to make it change its mind.

 

Harry tried not to think about it as he crossed the threshold.

 

How to do this? Knocking on the door would wake the Dursleys, who would make a ruckus, which wake the whole neighborhood. Which would then alert anyone looking for trouble in connection to Harry Potter.

 

Harry didn’t even dare open the front door with a simple  _alohamora._

 

Well, he thought wryly, he’d made many stupid decisions since he’d awoken, so what was one more?

 

He leaned down to pick up a rock, then moved to the side of the house, aimed for the window of his bedroom and –

 

Fawkes chirped in his ear.

 

“Um. Yes?”

 

Harry’s heart skipped a beat as he was encompassed in flames, heat surrounding him. He almost screamed, but stopped short when he realized Fawkes had just taken them inside.

 

He blinked and placed a hand over his fluttering heart. “Did you  _want_ to give the body of Albus Dumbledore a heart attack?” he accused Fawkes in a harsh whisper.

 

The phoenix nipped his ear, as if telling him not to be so dramatic.

 

Harry swatted at him before he stealthily made his way up the stairs, careful to avoid the creaking steps. He felt a sudden surge of empathy for Tonks, with her ever-changing limbs and body mass. It was difficult to navigate when moving in a body much taller than his own.

 

He paused as he reached the top - the only sound he could hear was Vernon’s snoring.

 

Harry wasn’t quite sure what to expect, as he slowly pushed open the door to his bedroom, but he knew that he had Fawkes with him, and well…even if it was as bad as a basilisk, they could handle it together.

 

Unless it was worse than a basilisk.

 

Maybe his body was just gone… or an empty husk. He shuddered at the thought, because if his body was empty then where was Dumbledore?

 

He swallowed thickly. What if the real Dumbledore was dead?

 

But what if his body was awake, and aware, and there was  _someone else pretending to be him_. Oh Merlin, what if it was Voldemort possessing him and something had gone really wrong?   
  


What if, what if, what if –

 

He walked inside and froze.

 

For as far as he could tell - if he was not mistaken, if he was not mad – the pretender Harry Potter was very much alive and pointing a very familiar holly and phoenix feather wand at him.

 

Harry stood still as the pretender’s green eyes caught sight of Fawkes. The wand lowered.

 

Then the pretender smiled at him. “Good evening, Harry,” he said casually, as though there were nothing strange happening at all.

 

Harry looked over him appraisingly. “Professor?” he asked, voice uncertain. It certainly seemed like it was Dumbledore. Only Dumbledore would be so annoyingly nonchalant.

 

But as much as Harry wanted to believe it, he couldn’t help but think that Tom Riddle had been a very, very good actor, once upon a time. So he took a leaf out of Moody’s book. “Um, in second year, in the Chamber…Tom Riddle told me we were very much alike,” he cleared his throat, uncomfortable at the memory. “When I told you, what did you say?”

  
“I said, ‘it is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.’” Dumbledore beamed, and it was so very strange to see that radiant joy on Harry Potter’s face. “A sentiment which I suspect we will ponder often as we consider our current situation.”

 

Harry sagged with relief against the wall. It wasn’t Voldemort. That thought reinvigorated him. “Er, about our situation…,” Harry started, feeling awkward and incredibly aware of how British he was, “Professor… how did this happen?”

 

Dumbledore shrugged, reaching out a hand to stroke Fawkes’s feathers. “I haven’t the faintest.”

 

They stood in silence for a moment, Harry at a complete loss while Dumbledore looked serene, a little wisp of humor in his lips. 

 

“Are we dreaming?” Harry wondered for the hundredth time, voice hopeful.

 

Dumbledore glanced at him from behind round glasses, green-eyes glinting with amusement. “That, I think, we can eliminate. But I have faith a solution will present itself.”

 

For the first time, he doubted the Headmaster’s words. It was strange, knowing that just a few months ago, before the prophecy, Dumbledore’s calm confidence would have inspired complete, unquestioning assurance. In a brief flash of spite, Harry was tempted to offer a sarcastic answer. But as he watched Dumbledore standing there in the guise of Harry Potter, simply waiting patiently for Harry’s response, for his judgement, Harry felt that viciousness fade. Though it was with no small amount of hesitance and reluctance, even after hearing Dumbledore confess his own failures… Harry could not help but trust him, maybe more than anyone. He wasn’t quite sure what that said about himself or the rest of the world.

 

“Right, right…” Harry shifted uneasily and squinted at Dumbledore. It was one thing to know he hadn’t been eating or sleeping enough, but now as Harry looked at himself from another perspective, he could really see the toll his grief had taken.

 

But for the first time since Sirius’s death, the thought of his godfather made his lips twitch in humor. “Sirius would’ve thought this whole thing was hilarious,” he said suddenly, surprising himself with the outburst. “He would’ve seen this as the greatest pranking opportunity in the world. Probably would’ve come up with a million ways to exploit this, all within the first ten seconds of hearing about it. I mean, half of them would include tormenting Snape, but still…” Harry stopped, voice thick, unable to continue.

 

“Then perhaps we should make the most of it,” Dumbledore said, smiling cheerfully. “To honor his memory.”

 

The idea startled a weak laugh out of Harry. “Yeah, we’ll just have to try not to get caught. Except, well…there’s Professor McGonagall.” He rubbed the back of his neck and met Dumbledore’s curious expression. “I didn’t tell anyone that we… switched bodies… but I panicked and didn’t know how to get here, so I woke her up, and told her she needed to side-along apparate me here, and well, then she asked why I couldn’t use Fawkes, which was _exactly_  when Fawkes decided to show up, so we kind of, um… left without her.”

 

“Oh dear. That is most troubling,” he said sympathetically, though there was no true note of concern in the words. In fact, Harry could swear Dumbledore’s lip twitched.

 

“Yes,” Harry huffed, peering down at Dumbledore from behind his half-moon spectacles. “She knew something was off, so we should probably reassure her that I’m not an imposter trying to murder Harry Potter.”

 

Dumbledore just chuckled and closed the lid to Harry’s trunk, which he barely unpacked since the end of the school year.

 

Harry glared half-heartedly as he pulled up his constantly falling glasses over his crooked nose. “Hang on.” He poked at the ridge in it experimentally. “Did you break your nose?” he asked curiously. At Dumbledore’s wide-eyed look, he explained hastily, almost abashed for having asked, “It’s just, this doesn’t feel entirely natural.”

 

The headmaster stopped laughing and cleared his throat loudly. “Fawkes, my friend, if you would?”

 

* * *

 

As Harry sat in the Headmaster’s chair, a thought struck him. “Sir,” said Harry, mind whirring much like the many gadgets around them in Dumbledore’s office. He leaned forward. “If we’ve switched bodies, doesn’t that mean  _you_ have to fulfill the prophecy? Y’know what with, ‘ _at the hand of the other,_ ’ well…” he looked meaningfully at Dumbledore. “You’ve definitely got Harry Potter’s hands.”

 

Dumbledore paused, green eyes widening a bit in surprise, before he chuckled. “I’m afraid not, my boy.  _You_ are the one whom Voldemort marked. Our souls are still very much the same. They’ve merely…relocated in a manner which still eludes me.”

 

Harry didn’t buy it for a second. It made sense, but Harry was never much one for logic. Gryffindor that he was, he would not be daunted in the face of common sense. He was onto something, he knew it in his bones.

 

“Eludes you,” Harry said slowly, unable to believe his good fortune. All those nights where he had woken up in a cold sweat, full of terror at the thought of having to slay the most powerful dark wizard in recent memory, and now he wouldn’t have to do it…

 

He cast Dumbledore a calculating glance. It was strange to look at him and see the face of Harry Potter, radiating wisdom and calm.

 

Perhaps somehow mistaking the disbelief and increasing joy in Harry’s voice for concern, Dumbledore’s eyes softened and he spoke soothingly. “Not to worry, Harry. I’m entirely confident that we shall find a solution.” He steepled his fingers. “Truthfully, Harry, I must confess to you that this is not the strangest situation I have ever found myself in. Why, I once dabbled in the art of chronomancy and animal self-transformation in the same summer, and made some accidental headway in the realm of quantum superposition! I somehow found myself in the intriguing state of being a cat, and not a cat simultaneously. Very Schrödinger…for a moment, I could have sworn that the universe tried to correct a paradox that had yet to take place, that I was both _alive_ , yet-”

 

“Professor,” interrupted Harry loudly, who at the moment really couldn’t care less about Dumbledore’s reminiscing in the face of his surely more important moment of self-discovery. “I think we should put this to the test.”

 

Dumbledore frowned, but humored him. “What did you have in mind?”

 

“ _Point me_  Harry Potter,” he said, as the wand in his hand spun toward Dumbledore.

 

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, chidingly. “As I said, it is our  _souls,_ which are the same. The  _point me_ spell does not perform search on a metaphysical level, rather-”

 

“ _Expecto patronum,”_  Harry incanted. A familiar melody filled the room as a corporeal phoenix flew forth before landing on his shoulder. Harry cooed at it in smug satisfaction.

 

Let it never be said that Albus Dumbledore was slow on the uptake; after just a moment of genuine surprise, he followed the spell with his own. A majestic stag emerged and trotted about the room before butting Dumbledore’s hand affectionately.

 

Dumbledore recovered quickly. “While interesting, I do not believe this is conclusive.”

 

Dumbledore looked at him in a surely-you-must-admit-it kind of way.

 

Harry didn’t have to admit shit. He gave the impression of indulging Dumbledore. “What  _would_  you consider conclusive?” he asked, rather curious to see what lengths Dumbledore would go to in his denial.

 

Dumbledore turned to Fawkes, who gave an intrigued trill.

 

* * *

 

 

 A flash of Phoenix fire later, and they both arrived at Grimmauld Place, much to the surprise of the Order members present.

 

“Albus!” shouted Mad-Eye, who had already drawn his wand in his direction. “What was the last thing I said to you in our conversation on Tuesday?”

 

At any other moment, Harry might have been impressed by the ex-Auror’s dedication. As it was, he wished Moody was still holed up in the bottom of a trunk somewhere. At the bottom of the ocean. With no air.

 

From his place at the dining table, Kingsley gave Moody a glance that conveyed serious doubts about Mad-Eye’s sanity.

 

Remus just rolled his eyes and set down his cup of tea. “Mad-Eye, they arrived via Fawkes. Into Order headquarters. Which is protected under Albus’s Fidelius charm. I think it’s safe to say, he’s Albus Dumbledore. Besides,” he waved a hand, as if to say  _explain this_ , “who’d be mad enough to impersonate Dumbledore?” Remus’s face brightened as he looked toward Dumbledore-trapped-in-Harry’s-body. “Harry,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you.”

 

“Never underestimate the enemy,” growled Moody, never taking his eyes or wand off of the two of them. “Besides, what’s the lad doing here? Albus wouldn’t have moved him from Surrey.”

 

“Oh,” said Harry pressingly, glancing at Dumbledore.

 

Dumbledore smiled at him in a promising way.

 

Encouraged, he took a deep breath. In the spirit of staying in character, Harry put on his best long-suffering look and sighed in a very dramatic fashion. “Now, Remus,” he began, “Alastor’s paranoia is not entirely unwarranted.” He gave what he hoped was an indulgent smile. “I’m afraid that in my old age I’ve gotten quite forgetful. That, in combination with my tendency to keep important information to myself, is why I did not notify you as to Harry’s arrival.” 

 

Harry nearly ruined it with a smirk as he caught sight of Dumbledore’s deeply amused expression. “As to your question, Alastor, I believe when last we spoke you said, ‘I’m getting too old for this shit.’”

 

“Aye,” said Mad-Eye sagely, lowering his wand. “I really am getting too old for this shit…”

 

Kingsley muttered something under his breath about not being paid enough to give a shit about Mad-Eye’s shit, which had Remus playing diplomat to a snarling Moody while very pointedly trying not to laugh.

 

“How did you know?” asked Albus, looking flabbergasted and genuinely impressed, while Harry maneuvered them away from the impending squabble.

 

Harry just smiled at him, sweating and inwardly relieved at his stroke of luck.

 

He hoped his eyes were twinkling.

 

* * *

 

They walked outside Grimmauld onto the street packed with muggles.  

 

“Are you sure this is the best way to do this?” asked Harry as they crossed the street and approached a group of teenagers smoking on steps. “I mean, can’t you just try to tell someone the secret, and if you can’t we’ll know you’re not the secret keeper? Because if I try, and I  _do_ pass on the secret, won’t that create a whole mess?”

 

“Nonsense, Harry. It’s an excellent plan.” Dumbledore’s green eyes glittered outrageously with mischief. “Now, hand me the lemon drops.”

 

Harry couldn’t exactly deny it. It was an excellent plan. He passed the lemon drops over.  “Excuse me,” Harry asked a group of teenagers smoking on steps. He tucked his beard into his belt and smiled widely.

 

Dumbledore stood behind him, bouncing on his toes.  

 

Most of them took one look at the two of them, laughed, then ignored them; but one seemed a bit curious – the girl closest to them.

 

She had blue eyes, blue hair, and pierced eyebrows that jumped to her hairline as she looked Harry up and down, lingering over the bows in his beard and the stars on his robes. She sent Harry an unimpressed look. He wanted to tell her he entirely agreed with her assessment, but instead he gave a bright smile.

 

“My grandson and I are having a bit of a disagreement, we were hoping you could help us?”

 

“Sure,” she said, standing and putting out her cigarette. She walked over to them. “Why the fuck not?”

 

“Excellent!” cried Harry. He put an arm around her and gestured across the street. “My grandson, young lad that he is, insists that there is a building missing between number 11 and 13!”

 

She looked at him as though he were a bit touched. “He’s right.”

 

Harry hummed. “Well,” he leaned closer to her, voice just a playful whisper. “What if I were to tell you that the Headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix is at Number 12 Grimmauld Place?”

 

For a moment, nothing happened. The girl still looked confused, but then –

 

“Bloody fuck!” she swore. “Where the hell did that come from?”

 

Dumbledore tapped her on her shoulder. “Lemon drop?” he offered the girl.

 

She gave him a look of utter disbelief.

 

“You’re going to need it,” he advised cheerfully.

 

She took the lemon drop.

 

* * *

 

 

To Harry and Dumbledore’s alarm, Professor McGonagall was waiting for them at Headquarters.

 

“ _Albus,”_ the Scottish witch said furiously when she caught sight of Harry. “Where have you been? I had to find out from Kingsley that you’ve been prancing about the country, Mister Potter in tow.”

 

Harry and Dumbledore both shot the Auror a stark look of betrayal.

 

Shacklebolt remained unfazed, fixing a deeply disappointed look at Harry. He opened his mouth to give what was surely an inspiring lecture on the importance of security and proper precautions, when Dumbledore came to Harry’s rescue.

 

Albus cleared his throat. “One of you has to memory charm the blue-haired muggle outside.”

 

By their looks, this was not what they expected to hear. “And why is that, Mr Potter?” asked McGonagall, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

 

“Because she knows the secret,” Dumbledore said helpfully.

 

“Headmaster…why would you tell a muggle where our Headquarters is?” asked Remus, seeming to speak for the entirely baffled room.

 

Thinking quickly, Harry said mysteriously, “I often find that my musings are so vast…so numerous…that at times, there is no place for logic in my mind.”

 

Dumbledore beamed at Harry, radiating approval.

 

“Unbelievable,” said McGonagall, the coldness in her voice somehow far more intimidating than the sharp accusations she’d given so far. “How could you be so very irresponsible? And what exactly did you  _think_  would happen when all the charms monitoring Privet Drive went off? You could have, at the least, informed the Order members on guard. Nymphadora and Dedalus Diggle have both been in a panic – rightly so, I might add,” her lips thinned and her brow furrowed, as if she were making note of her duty to exact further punishment. “I  _will_  be having words with them. It astounds me that they missed your arrival and unique method of transportation.”

 

“Monitoring charms?” asked Harry, fixated on this point. He glanced at Dumbledore beside him, who suddenly looked very innocent and interested in the ceiling.

 

“Don’t you dare,” McGonagall said, nostrils flaring. “You have no right to criticize my entering your office after you woke me at three in the bloody morning, only to dash off afterwards with  _no explanation whatsoever!”_

“Minerva,” interrupted Remus, standing from his place at the table. “I understand your frustration. Really, I do. But shouldn’t we take care of the blue-haired muggle first?”

 

Seizing the opportunity, Harry grabbed Dumbledore’s shoulder and pointed at the window behind the rest of the Order members. “Look, she’s getting away!” he shouted.

 

Perhaps against all instinct, McGonagall, Remus, Kingsley, and Mad-Eye could not help but turn and look across the street.

 

It was a fatal mistake, for immediately Dumbledore cried out, “To Hogwarts!”

 

Harry and Dumbledore vanished in a flash of brilliant scarlet and gold, leaving behind both their responsibilities and the Order’s vexed uproar.

 

* * *

 

Harry settled on the Headmaster’s chair, kicking his legs up on the ancient desk. “You are a  _glorious_  creature,” said Harry to Fawkes, utter admiration in his voice. He searched the pockets of Dumbledore’s robes, and found a small bag of treats, which Fawkes immediately accepted.

 

Dumbledore took the seat opposite Harry, and nodded in agreement. “Indeed. Did you know, Harry, that I almost named Fawkes ‘Deus Ex Machina?’”

 

Harry stared at Dumbledore. “No, sir,” he finally managed, impressed at his own ability to fight the speechlessness threatening to take over.

 

“Yes, it was a near thing.” Dumbledore leant in, as if imparting a great secret. “‘Houdini,’ was another contender. However, Fawkes must have decided that both choices seemed a bit heavy-handed. He liked the story of Guy Fawkes best; I inferred as much by the way he kept spontaneously flaming us both to London Parliament – and with such… horribly impeccable timing too.” He cast Fawkes a fond look. “In the end, I believe he found the other choices I offered him to be a bit too pretentious.”

 

“Humility is, um…a great quality in a bird,” Harry said, unsure of what the appropriate response to that was. “Phoenix,” he corrected quickly, at the way Fawkes flapped his wings.

 

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, Dumbledore smiling at him widely, before Harry remembered his triumph. “I suppose that settles it then. You’re  _not_  the secret keeper,” he said, giving Dumbledore a haughty smirk. “You’re the Chosen One!”

 

But the Headmaster would not yet yield; he had the solemn face of a man who would outlast any storm, a face that promised to be unmovable no matter the will of fate. “I would have preferred not to show you this quite yet,” Dumbledore said quietly, “but alas, needs must.”

 

He tapped a wand against one of the black shelves in the office, muttering incantations in a language Harry did not recognize, then suddenly Harry could see the pensieve from last year.

 

Dumbledore poured several vials of memories into the basin, and beckoned him over.

 

They descended into the silver pool of whirling mist together.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore is not a happy guest of Privet 4.

As they emerged from the pensieve, Harry immediately leaned on the desk for support, heart racing and legs trembling. For the first time since their body-switch, Harry could feel the weight of this body’s age and an unfamiliar trepidation in his bones.

“Horcruxes,” Harry said, truly unnerved and for the first time fearing that they would be unable win. “Multiple horcruxes.”

Of course, Voldemort wouldn’t make it easy on him. It wasn’t enough that his enemy was an insanely powerful psychopath with a manic fixation on Harry Potter. No, even if Harry - or Dumbledore in this instance - were to best Voldemort in a duel, it wouldn’t end.

He had the sudden, intrusive thought of a future filled with an endless hunt between the two of them. A future where Voldemort only had to be lucky once.

They could be anywhere, anything… Voldemort was truly as brilliant as he was insane.

Dumbledore placed a steady hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I’m afraid so.”

Harry closed his blue eyes, trying to quell the cresting panic that threatened to overwhelm him.

It could’ve been worse, he tried to convince himself. Dumbledore had caught on, but Voldemort had no hint of that. The odds were bad, yes, but that that was nothing new. If anything, it was on par for course, that sensation of fate being stacked against him and the crushing expectation that he triumph anyway.

There were, however, some parts that didn’t make sense. Harry opened his eyes and took a deep breath, straightening his spine as he did so. Harry peered down at Dumbledore suspiciously, and took a stab in the dark. “Sir…Is there anything you would like to tell me?”

Dumbledore’s silence was the only response he needed.

“Professor…”

But Harry had always been good at working under pressure, thoughts now rolling through what he knew of horcruxes, his strange dreams, and Dumbledore’s desperate insistence that their souls and fates were still their own…

It was now clear to him that whatever connection he’d shared with Voldemort went beyond the sharing of minds. There was some strange, potent magic binding them together.

Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort.

They were a duality bound by an interweaving fate, by shared blood and wand cores, by similarities in upbringing and magic.

That much, he had already known, and even then, it was enough to haunt him. But now... the pieces were coming together, and the fear cut him viscerally.

There was a… resonance in his soul that connected him to one of the most terrible dark wizards to ever walk the face of this earth.

_(“There are strange likenesses between us, Harry Potter. Even you must have noticed.”)_

A bond between them in the essence of their beings. Had it always been so? Had he truly been destined from birth to be the sort of person whose driving force naturally collided with Voldemort?

Harry wondered for the first time, how truly terrible his potential might be if he was the sort of wizard who could be so interlinked with Voldemort. That his soul might be a reflection of a being so monstrous as to mutilate his own.

He felt an idle horror at the implication that he and Voldemort were something very much like soulmates.

_(“A Horcrux, Harry, is a receptacle prepared by dark magic in which a Dark wizard has intentionally hidden a fragment of his soul for the purpose of attaining immortality.”)_

“A vessel for a soul fragment,” Harry said aloud.

Then, like lightning, a terrible notion struck him. Harry’s hands flew up to his forehead, where he was so used to tracing the outline of his scar. The smooth skin did little to reassure him.

His heart was loud in his ears.

“No,” Harry whispered, looking at Dumbledore, at the vivid scar which had brought him so much pain. Dread coursed through his veins. “I’m not a – I couldn’t be. That’s insane. That’s impossible. You’re wrong.”

Dumbledore’s continued silence unsettled him more than any protest or affirmation could have.

Harry’s heart raced, a cresting sense of panic overtaking him. He tried desperately to think of any other explanation but could not.

Harry half expected Dumbledore to not look him in the eye, but the Headmaster did. Dumbledore looked at Harry with strange brand of courage, a mixture of guilt and acceptance of imminent punishment.

“I don’t want it,” Harry said, his throat threatening to close before he could get the words out. “I don’t want any part of him, get it out, I don’t want his soul!”

It was immediately followed by the cold realization that he might be freed from it.

Harry had never been so grateful for Draco Malfoy in his life. He conjured a snake. “Can you hear me?” Harry asked the cobra, trying very hard to listen for that edge of parseltongue in his speech.

The snake did not respond, simply curling in on itself. Harry looked at Dumbledore expectantly, who opened his mouth and…hissed.

Dumbledore may have been saying hello, but Harry chose to believe it was more like oh, dear.

The rush of relief that swept through him left Harry feeling light-headed. He grinned from ear to ear. “Congratulations Headmaster,” said Harry, voice laden with unholy glee, “you’re the Chosen One!”

At Dumbledore’s utter shock and resignation, Harry couldn’t help but rub salt in the wound. “After all, you’ve been prepared for the prophecy far longer than I have. Whatever it is that connected Voldemort’s powers to mine, whatever likeness or- or affinity…it’s yours now.”

“How did this happen?” Dumbledore asked faintly. Then, more frustrated. “What are we, if not our souls? Mind, body, soul. Our spirits… What possible action or ancient magic could have given rise to these circumstances?”

Harry tried to give a hum of sympathy but the smirk on his face rendered it less effective. “It’s probably fate. Best not to question it.”

Dumbledore’s expression instantly turned thoughtful, a hint of something rueful and dear in the corner of his mouth. His green eyes softened as they flicked to Harry, shoulders slumping in one quick movement, as though a great weight had been removed from him. “You are quite right, Harry,” he agreed, voice strong with absolute conviction. “It is infinitely better this way.”

Harry faltered at the tears in Dumbledore’s green eyes, confused by the utter wonder and immense relief he found in them. “Sir?”

“Oh, Harry,” said Dumbledore, wiping at his eyes. “A great worry of mine troubles me no longer. Thank you, but I am fine.” He laughed, joyous, and full, and loud. “Truly.”

Somewhat thrown, but willing to take the Headmaster’s word for it, Harry simply placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “What will we do now?”

Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. “As I am essentially you, for all intents and purposes, I believe my presence will be sufficient in recharging the wards at your family’s house. Since you have remained there for one week, I shall stay there for another.”

“And after?”

“Well,” Dumbledore said, nodding to himself as he came to a decision, eyes alighting with playfulness. “I believe it is long past due for the greatest wizard alive to take on an apprentice.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

For Harry, the first few days following their change in living places consisted of him trying to ignore the various summons from the Ministry, placate the Order members who were persistent in their attempts to extract information from him, and avoid the new Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour – a former Auror, so they said.

There had been an unbelievable amount of post and all varieties of appeals.

Inspirational and personal appeals from Pomona Sprout regarding the donation of potions and plants from Hogwarts greenhouses to St. Mungos: _“If we do this as a goodwill gesture, Mungo’s will love us. It would be so wonderful for the Healers, gives them more flexibility with their galleons. We’ve known each other a long time, and I’m sure I can count on you.”_

Scrimgeour’s letters came regularly in the guise of consultation, as though he really wanted Dumbledore participate in decisions or changes. _“Wonder if I could get your thoughts about this matter? Let me know when we can schedule our first public meeting.”_

Then there were others, like Barnabas Cuff from The Daily Prophet, who shamelessly pestered Albus for interviews, as though the last year of libel and slander had never occurred. His ingratiating tactics really worked up Harry’s blood pressure - all of his oily letters were humble or friendly or flattering before making the same request: _“I hate to impose on your time, knowing how busy you are, but we really ought to get your perspective. Best to forget last year’s mess. Help me so I can help the wizarding world, you know.”_

It was enough to enrage Harry on the Headmaster’s behalf.

Even Snape sent him missives of the quid-pro-quo variety. Ever the Slytherin, his letters smoothly reminded Dumbledore of past favors. Harry almost spat out his tea when he read Snape’s intricate cursive on stained parchment: _“I’m sure one so esteemed as you need no reminder, Headmaster, but I insist we meet to discuss the salary needs associated with my taking of the Defense position.”_

Flitwick was trying for approval to re-start the Dueling Club, and Harry put that in the very small pile of letters he intended to respond to. Even with the slightly impatient: _“Everyone in this school thinks it’s a great idea, Albus, and frankly it’s about time.”_

McGonagall resorted to outright intimidation, which didn’t surprise Harry whatsoever. He was growing quite used to her demands and threats. _“If you don’t help clear the paperwork on my desk, Merlin help me Albus, you’d better think about cleaning out your own!”_

Kingsley liked to assert his authority and remind Albus about Ministry policies. “ _The PR meeting has been approved at the highest levels, Albus. The Wizengamot and the Wireless wants a speech from both you and Scrimgeour. You’re not getting out of this.”_

Harry’s response, of course, was neither enthusiastic commitment nor grudging compliance.

No, he was outright resistant.

In a decision that would have made Hermione proud, Harry had shut himself away in the Headmaster’s office to research, leaving only to return to the library and peruse the restricted section for books he hadn’t already read. He seized anything and everything that even looked remotely helpful. So far, no luck.

It was on the third day, as he was leaving the library, that McGonagall caught up to him.

She strode forward with great purpose, though her green eyes were filled with worry. “Albus.”

To Harry’s great relief, she did not sound irritated with him. In fact, she almost seemed distressed, a few wisps of hair falling out of her careful bun. “There’s been an incident at Privet Drive, they’re saying it’s a surge of accidental magic. Harry’s not in trouble for it, but considering the political climate and the strong possibility that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has infiltrated the Ministry…”

She left the sentence hanging, but there was no need for her to finish it. Harry quickly tucked the books he had in hand into one of the many pockets in his robes.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Minerva. I will see to it immediately.” He gave her a bit of a wry smile, “I, er, don’t suppose you would like to accompany me this time?”

She huffed a laugh, some of her anxiety melting away. “Thank you, Albus, but I must attend to another matter – Filius and I will be going over the castle’s wards this afternoon.”

Harry nodded at her. “Well then, I must be off.”

 

 

* * *

 

Harry immediately spotted Dumbledore as he arrived at Privet Drive, a feeling of trepidation overtaking him as he did so.

The man who wore his face set a captivating scene.

Dumbledore stood on the well-maintained lawn with his arms crossed, black hair messy and wild from the magic crackling about him, green eyes absolutely blazing with a ferocity that astonished Harry - for it seemed that all of this power, all of this fury, was directed at the Dursleys, who cowered shamefully behind the half-open door.

Harry could hardly see the interior of the house, but from the glimpse he caught, it seemed a scene of utter devastation. The floors were absolutely scorched, parts of the kitchen were blown to pieces. The windows were cracked and shattered, glass fragments shimmering on the porch and on the lawn.

There were a handful of people gathered there - three Aurors in flashy, red robes, a few ministry officials, most likely from the Accidental Magic and Reversal Squad, and someone who looked very much like the Minister that Harry had been trying so hard to avoid.

Harry watched in a disbelieving trance as they grappled with obvious fear and awe, eyes darting about nervously. Even the Minister, with his fearsome, scarred visage, and his lion’s mane of hair, had given Dumbledore a wide berth of caution, though his gaze was more calculating and curious than scared.

One of the ministry officials noticed Harry’s arrival, an unfamiliar woman with blond hair and pale, gray eyes. Persephone Fawley, his mind supplied. Class of 1969. Obliviation Squad. The unprompted knowledge startled him so badly he nearly tripped.

“Headmaster,” Fawley said, the relief evident in her voice. “Thank goodness you’re here, we didn’t want to get started without you.”

Harry graced her with a brief glance of acknowledgement before he strode past all of them. He paused nervously when he reached Dumbledore, who was far enough away that the others could not hear them. He cleared his throat, hoping this would work, before calling out to him softly. “Professor.”

Dumbledore looked up at him, as if drawn from a dream. As green eyes met blue, Dumbledore’s aura of uncontainable fury lessened, became more subdued. “It seems I owe you a great apology, Harry,” he said quietly, and so plain was his anguish that Harry found it hard to look at him. “Ten dark and difficult years, I condemned you to, yet when I opened the door to the little cupboard beneath the stairs… I found I could not bear the weight of that indignity for even three full days.”

Shame flooded through Harry at the words, and he looked at his feet. He did not want to have this discussion, and perhaps he never would, but he knew he was required to say something. His mind scrambled for a way to close the matter. “They got better when my letter came. Even more when I told them about – about Sirius. Really. It’s just… only words. I don’t want anything from them.”

Dumbledore looked even more defeated. “If you have learned one thing in the magical world, it is that words have power, intent even more so. In reminding them of the magical world, I did not, as I had hoped, instill in them a respect for your boundaries. Instead, I provided them with other boundaries to violate. In my many years…” Dumbledore stopped, struggling for words.

Harry had the impression that this was something of a rarity, and he seized the opportunity. “It’s fine, really Professor,” he muttered, voice low. “I’m fine now, and I know they’re the worst sort of people. I know they’re not to be, um, imitated, that they’re not normal. And I’m not planning on any sort of - of revenge, or whatever, so you don’t have to worry about that…”

Dumbledore looked at him, wand aloft and a righteous fire burning kindling in his eyes. “Oh, I never for a moment worried for that possibility, Harry. I have long known you would not succumb to that particular temptation. Since you gazed into the Mirror of Erised in your first year and obtained the stone, I have known that you are a singularly selfless individual, perhaps the greatest I have ever known. The Dursleys need not fear your wrath. No, in that you are a man greater than myself.”

The Headmaster turned to look at the wreckage on the lawn, and Harry felt a flicker of intuition surge through his body. In that moment, Dumbledore resembled a man who had long been watching from atop a lighthouse, a safeguard content to watch and protect from his great height. A man who now was roused and walking down a treacherous path with no fear that it would tear him to pieces.

  
_(“We both know that there are other ways of destroying a man, Tom…Merely taking your life would not satisfy me, I admit —”)_

  
“Sir?” said Harry, moved by the Headmaster’s words. He was astounded at the anger radiating of off Dumbledore in waves, thrown by the vehemence and passion so plain in his voice. Harry’s chest felt heavy, there was a strange and painful burning in his throat. He felt a mess of complicated, tangled emotions he had no idea how to sort through.

Dumbledore’s faith in him was terrifying, and Harry could not help but feel as though he would inevitably fail to meet those expectations.

But above all, Harry felt… unworthy.

_(“SHE KILLED SIRIUS! SHE KILLED HIM — I’LL KILL HER!”)_

He felt viciously sick with himself. “Thank you, Professor, but I’m not really - I mean, I don’t deserve...”

Dumbledore studied him for a moment before a deduction seemed to strike him. He lifted an eyebrow, but his voice was soft. “You blame yourself for seeking retribution against Madame Lestrange? It is only human, Harry, for you to have wanted such a reckoning… Terribly human, perhaps, but even so, from your account you were unable to produce the true Cruciatus. As you are now, you do not possess the irredeemable hatred and evil intent that serve as necessary conditions for the casting of that curse. The mindset required to cast it entails a hatred so consuming that it is akin to an isolating madness, a true distortion of the soul. Your attempt stemmed from injustice, from grief, and in your failure, I think you will find that it makes all the difference in the world.”

Harry’s instant inclination was to disappear at such a blunt discussion of himself, but without escape he settled for disagreement. “I still tried,” he said, and just thinking about the witch, with her insane laughter echoing in his thoughts, provoked the devastating, open wound of Sirius’s death. The pain was sharp and raw, though, and with it did come hatred, the same hatred that Dumbledore was so sure he was without. Hatred so fierce it seared through his veins and boiled in his heart. He wondered how Dumbledore could fail to see it smoldering in his eyes, even if they were now blue… “You’re wrong. I still cast the curse on her, and even if I didn’t as it was meant to, I didn’t know that. I wanted her to hurt – I still want to hurt her. Just like-”

Harry stopped, breathing erratic. Magic crackled from his fingertips.

Dumbledore spared the sparks a glance but met Harry’s gaze again. “Like she hurt you,” he said quietly, knowingly. “To deny your challenges is to deny your success Harry, and the only sin in suffering is to suffer needlessly.” He turned back to the front of the house, solemn. “For your suffering here, in the care of those who should have cherished you, has been needless, and that is my burden to bear. No child should grow up believing themselves to be unworthy of love.” Dumbledore reached an urgent hand out to Harry’s shoulder, something unfathomable and bright in his green eyes.

“You have inherent value, Harry. You are valuable. Not for what you or the Boy-Who-Lived can do for this world, but just for who you are.”

_(“I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I’m not there.”)_

Harry is tempted to give into the feeling that is building in his chest, the one closing off his throat and searing in the back of his eyes. He was cared for. He was important. The thought was so big that Harry couldn’t even let himself think of it.

“You are so loved, Harry.”

He maybe gave in just a little.


End file.
